


Singing in the Rain

by NiklasHallin



Category: A Clockwork Orange (1971), A Clockwork Orange - Anthony Burgess
Genre: F/M, Gen, Nadsat slang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:10:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiklasHallin/pseuds/NiklasHallin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was me, that is Alex, and my two droogs, that is Pete and Dim, Dim being really dim, and we had just goolied into the Korova Milkbar, a sparkling new mesto just opened up in our fair community. I viddied the place up and down, and I knew already, O my brothers, that this was a mesto after my own liking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Singing in the Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wayfarers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wayfarers/gifts).



> Happy Holidays Wayfarers!  
> I hope you enjoy this story.

**1**

"What's it going to be then, eh?"  
   There was me, that is Alex, and my two droogs, that is Pete, a skinny bastard I'd known since we were but wee malchickivicks, and Dim, Dim being really dim, and we had just goolied into the Korova Milkbar, a sparkling new mesto just opened up in our fair community. I viddied the place up and down, and I knew already, O my brothers, that this was a mesto after my own liking. The walls were like painted black, with the names of the various milk-plus drinks written all over, and the tables and chairs were in the shape of like plastic white devotchkas, all in their nagoy and with plastic groodys perking out real horrorshow.  
   "What's it going to be then, eh?"  
   The fat starry veck behind the counter wanted to know what he should put in the old moloko for me, vellocet or synthemesc or some other veshch what could sharpen you up like a chill winter nochy or could put your old gulliver in orbit and have you see big Bog Almighty as you doozed off in your plushy seat drooling. Now in those days, my brothers, us so called nadsats (that is Modern Youths), we usually teamed up in groups of four or five, a comfy number of droogs if you wanted to fit all into one auto. Sadly, there was only three of us, though poor old Dim being worth two or three in sheer madness and dirty fighting, so we had to be a bit careful when it came to the old twenty-to-one. We were all dressed in the height of fashion, which in those days was a set of white platties with the old jelly mould, as we called it, fitting on the crotch for protection and held up with suspenders, black hats of high class and a pair of flip horrorshow boots for kicking.  
   “What’s it going to be then, eh?”  
   “Knives,” said I, “Came here, we did, for milk with knives in it.” Truth be told, O my brothers, this was the very first time I would peet milk with knives, as we called it, this being the type of veshche to really pump you up and get your gulliver clear as like a crystal lake. But this was no time to be poogly. Pete and Dim got their cans as well, and we planted our merry selves. As soon as I'd filled my old rot with milk-plus I could feel the effects coming over me. Time slowed down all around me, dull colors were suddenly bright, the whole kosmos was wrapped tightly inside my rassoodock and I was strong as a slon (that is elephant). So what if there were only three of us droogs this nochy? We were young and strong. No one could take Dim in a fair fight, and Dim wouldn't fight fair in the first place. We had had knives in our milk, and we were ready for some of the old ultraviolence.  
   "Out!" I creeched. "Out out out out!"  
   And poor old Dim answered with some lip-music like prrrrzzzzzrrrr and we all ran out on the street laughing and howling real horrorshow. Outside we put our maskies on - new jobs these were, wonderfully done really; long noses and grinning mouths, like the such you could viddy in the old cirkywerk, all clowny-like. They were a real disguise, but also a sort of design, all in the height of fashion. Maskie on my face, my fine starry cut-throat britva in my pocket, I was ready for a night of twenty-to-one and the night was so so young.

**2**

We had not strolled far, O my brothers, Pete and Dim and I, when we happened upon our first encounter for the night. 'Twas by the derelict concert hall, where they used to play such wonderful music in the golden days of yore. These halls used to ring with the trumpets and drums of J. S. Bach or W. R. Wagner or, dare I think it? none other than Ludwig van himself. Oh, to have been able to slooshy the sluice of such splendourus sounds, the gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh by the German masters! But that was long ago, and things changing so skorry these days this palace of music now stood empty and forgotten. Men on the moon, but no money left to uphold our sense of culture. No wonder things got the way they are. But I digress myself, brothers, and you'll have to excuse you Poor Humble Narrator for some idle daydreaming about the sweet music and the glorious Ludwig Van. I should get on with the story.  
   So there we were, in the derelict concert hall, when all of a sudden we slooshied these musical slovos, from a song. The singing came from the old stage, and the song, some starry pop veshch from the sinnies or something, went on like:

> I'm singing in the rain, just singing in the rain,  
>  What a glorious feelin', I'm happy again. 

   Or some stupid cal like that. I didn’t enjoy the music much, especially when this hall had just reminded me of old Ludwig Van and friends. So me and my droogs ittied further into the room, and I viddied on the stage this nadsat devotchka, who did the singing, and her gang of droogs, who did the rest. They were real busy shiving up the plushy seats with little britvas and thowing the white fluffiwuff up on the stage, and writing real baddiwad slovos all over the walls in big letters. I knew already who this team was. Their leader, who was singing the silly warble, was Jenny, and her droogs were two other sharps, who were twins, and then her number-one, and second-in-command, was a fine malchick name of Georgie. We had met them several times before, and it always ended in one real horrorshow sack of ultraviolence.  
   Jenny was dressed in the height of fashion, with a bright orange wig on her gulliver and make-up around her lips painted all the way out to her ears, all purplewurple. She was honking her heart out on the stage, and in her hand she held an old blackjack of the real nasty type.

> I'm laughing at clouds, so dark up above,  
>  The sun's in my heart, and I'm ready for love. 

   There was something about Jenny that always made me want to smack my rooker right into her smecking listo. She didn’t smell as bad as poor old Billyboy and his grazzy droogs, with whom we also did battle on the occasion, but her like aggressive territory policy was enough to warrant a wallop any day, not to mention her hound-and-horny taste in music. She viddied us a-coming into the hall, me and my droogs, and she creeched from the stage: “Oi, little Alex! ‘Tis not every day one meets such an esteemed personality in poison.”    
   “Oh oh oh” I said smiling. “How art thou, fair miss? It pains me greatly to say to thee, oh my sister, that thou art not welcome in this hall of concerts past.”  
   At this point I had boldly goolied right up to the stage, and instead of govoreeting on and on Jenny like launched herself down over me, knocking me to the floor and skvatting for my throat. I rolled to my back and kicked her in her pot, pushing her off of me, and in the meanwhile Dim was unrolling the length of oozy or chain he kept around his waist and going loose on the twin devotchkas, while Pete were trying to get a hold on sneaky old Georgie. The drat had started, and a flip loud ultraviolent type of drat at that.  
   Me, I let my droogs deal with the others, and focused on clopping up this Jenny all on my oddy knocky. The knives in the milk plus were stabbing away all nice and horrorshow now. I had her like pinned down, and I managed to tolchok a big, nice headbutt right over her nose, which gave a satisfying creaking noise and brought the red out like an old friend. Jenny didn’t get too happy about that, and she tried to shake me off, but I was too heavy and I kept on hitting her face with my rookers. She was smecking all along hahahahaha, red blood pouring between her teeth and goobers, and it was clear to me I would have to be a bit careful, her likely having had some milk plus as well earlier. She spit a mouthful of blood in my face, and managed to hinge a flip heavy boot up between my legs, the old jelly mould taking much of the impact but the force still enough to send me flying across the aisle. She was on me in a second, knocking my maskie off in the process, and now it was me taking tolchoks to the listo and spewing red red krovvy from my nose.  
   And all of a sudden, O my brothers, she was like all pressed up against me, her listo just centimeters from mine, her soft groodies pressed against my body and her breath hot on my lips, and I felt it, O I did, I felt it in my pan-handle deep in the jelly mould, brothers, but alas I also felt it in the old tick-tocker. This Jenny, this long-time adversary of mine and the enemy to all good music, was a fair young dama after all, and all this milk-plus and ultraviolence had warmed me up and put me in the mood for some of the old in-out-in-out. But I also viddied in this moment, clear as a crystal lake, that I did not want to spat with just any ptista, but with this Jenny in particular.  
   I drooled as much of the blood out of my rot as possible, reached my whole gulliver up and kissed her on her painted lips.  
   I know not, brothers, what she had expected me to do; clop her teeth out with my forehead, break her nose with my rookers, pull her hair, poke her eyes, but it was clear that whatever she had expected, it was not that what I did. Her glazzes widened up like two white little eggiwegs, for just a split second, before she made up her rassoodok all on her lonesome and decided to kiss me back. I lay there, my back like to the floor and this devotchka, this Jenny, kissing me back, and it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh. And what a flesh at that! Her lips were soft as like kitten paws and tasted sweet and sladky but mostly they tasted like red red iron blood, and for a while there I was most certainly Singing in the Rain, as it goes, like inside my own gulliver of course. And in that moment I had this like sneety or dream racing through me, of forming something new, something sustaining, together with this Jenny. Not just a short in-out, but a real like jeezny or life together, a proper one.  
   I’m telling you, brothers, Your Humble Mislead Narrator even briefly considered taking up a dayly rabbit at the factory like poor old Pee and Em, making some pretty polly in an honest way. Such was the force of this single solitary kiss, to blast me out of my ordinary sane self and make me viddy all these ludicrous illusions of lubbilubbing and Jenny’s luscious glory. But before I could slip any further down this trainwreck of a thought Jenny abruptly put a stop to it, and she did that using her nasty blackjack. Out of nowhere came the sodding shlaga, clopped me right in the rot, and made my zoobies rattle like hen-korm and little stars prickle behind my running eyes. Jenny pushed herself off of me laughing hahahahahaha and dancing away towards the stage. I spit out a mouthful of red red krovvy, having little choice in the matter, even though I really wanted to keep the taste of Jenny’s lips and kiss in there.  
   As my poor gulliver climbed back from sweet oblivion I slooshied what had gotten Jenny in such a hurry: Millicent sirens. It was time to disappear from this place, and real skorry if possible. I tried to get up, but pretty much everything hurt at this point, and I was reminded why I usually don’t start fights unless I’m sure I will win, with starry old vecks or lonely lewdies or merzky drunks or whatnot. Dim came over and helped me stand up, Bog bless his dim soul, and I viddied Jenny and her droogs, that is Georgie and the twins, were already leaving the concert hall. Jenny was slipping away through a fallen down wall, but before she went she turned to me and blew me a kiss. She winked and skipped out of view, still humming her stupid rain song.  
   It was time for me, Pete and Dim to make ourselves scarce before the rozz showed up and, fagged and shagged as we were, head to our own homes and beds.

**3**

 "What's it going to be then, eh?"  
   Some days later, me and my droogs, Pete and Dim, were once again at the Korova Milkbar, by now our favourite moloko mesto. I hadn’t viddied Jennypenny since that adventuresome nochy, but I had thought of her, I must admit, O my brothers. Me and the droogs had been taking life all calm-like the past few days, not getting in many fights, and even attending school at least once, the old skolliwoll where we were meant to spend our daytimes. But it was high time to get back on the streets again, as we were all like restless and ready for something new to happen. And as we sat there, peeting moloko, smoking cancers, who hadn’t walked right up to us if not sneaky old Georgie himself. Now he was sitting right among us, all droogy-like, going:  
   "What's it going to be then, eh?"  
   See, Georgie says to us, he says “Jenny’s old gang has been disbanded and Jenny is now all locked up in the staja”. It seems the millicent had gotten to them yesterday night when they were in the midst of what we called a Surprise Visit, and the razdrez rozz had managed to grab the lot of them, except sneaky Georgie, and carried them off to the State Jail or staja. So Georgie was left without a gang, and figured he’d come to us and see if he could join our merry troop.  
   I didn’t know what I was to make to the thought of poor Jenny a plenny in the human zoo. How baddiwad could it be for her? They would keep her locked up for a wee raz, but it was not like that would turn her into an all new person. Men on the moon, but nothing better to do with prestoopniks but to put them in a box for a while and then let them back on the streets again. So I was fairly sure I would see Jenny again, and in the meanwhile there would be other sharps to go lubbilubbing with to pass my time.    
   That left me with the question of what to do with Georgie here, my new would-be droog. Now at this time, O my brothers, it would still be a really really long while until I learned that shady old Georgie in fact wanted nothing more than to be the leader of a small band of droogs himself, and had like orchestrated the whole Surprise Visit disaster in order to get rid of Jenny and take her place, and that, unbeknownst to him, the rest of the gang, the twins, had been rather like fond of Jenny’s leadership, and so when she was left for the millicent to pick her up, they had not abandoned her but chosen to like go down with her as it were, leaving poor shady Georgie with no team at all left.  
   “Appy polly loggies, eh,” said George, “for any harm or discomfort I may have caused you in the past.”  
   “More, ” I said, “Let me slooshy more. What didst thou have in mind, Georgieboy?“  
   “I’m all on my lonesome now, with not a droog in the world. Thou art on the lookout for big strong chellovecks, art thou not? To fill up the ranks?”  
   “True” I smecked hahahaha, “True, true. Canst I trust thee, though, old enemy of mine?”  
   “Sure you can. I want nothing more than to live the good life, same as you. What says thou?”  
   For now, as it was, all that about Georgieboy taking over leadership from the shadows, all that was still in my malenky future, and I was as happy as a harpy to accept a new member into our modest crew. With Georgie as our new droog there would now be four of us, and we would no longer have to watch out for grazzy, merzky Billyboy and his crew. We could probably beat them up with little effort, if we had Georgie on our side. So when he asked for the last time "What's it going to be then, eh?" I handed him a cancer and welcomed him to sit down between Pete and Dim.  
   Milk was flowing freely in like celebration, and soon we took to the streets, the four of us. Life was good, O my brothers, real horrorshow, just as it should be. A flip dark chill winter bastad of a night, starry lewdies to beat, sweet shops to rob, pretty polly ripe for plucking, twenty-to-one from twenty to one o’clock. Droogs at my side, maskies on our listos, knives in our milk.  
   All was fine and horrorshow even without Jenny and her stupid singing in the rain. And in a way, she hadn’t really left me, O my brothers. I viddied clear as a crystal lake that whenever, from now on, that I would think about the old in-out-in-out I would get that stupid song stuck on my brain. 

> I'm singing in the rain, just singing in the rain,  
>  What a glorious feelin', I'm happy again. 

   My new anthem of spatting. What would old Ludwig Van think? It’s funny how the mind works, eh, the old rassoodok? How one experience can get like linked to another, so that they like merge and become one, and you can’t be having either one of them without immediately having the other. How your squishy, juicy brain can get all hardwired and wound up like some sort of clockwork orange.  
   Worth thinking about. Amen. And all that cal.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Epikoinos for Beta Reading!


End file.
